CHAPTER XVI

THE MERRY VAGABOND

The man who stood in the middle of the freight-car, looking down in wonder at the fugitives, was a tall vagabond of the most picturesque type. No ragam.u.f.fin was ever so tattered and torn as this rakish individual. His clothes barely hung together on his lank frame; he was barefoot and hatless; a great mop of black hair topped his shrewd, rugged face; coal-black eyes snapped and twinkled beneath s.h.a.ggy brows and a delighted, knowing grin spread slowly over his rather boyish countenance. He was not a creature to strike terror to the heart of any one; on the contrary, his mischievous, sprightly face produced an impression of genuine good humour and absolute indifference to the harsh things of life.

Long, thin lips curled into a smile of delicious regard; his sides shook with the quiet chuckle of understanding. He did not lose his smile, even when the match burned his finger tips and fell to the floor of the car.

Instead, the grin was broader when he struck the second match and resumed his amused scrutiny of his fellow-lodgers. This time he practised thrift: he lighted a cigarette with the match before tossing it aside. Then he softly slid the car door back in its groove and looked out into the moist, impenetrable night. A deep sigh left his smiling lips; a retrospective langour took possession of his long frame; he sighed again, and still he smiled.

Leaning against the side of the door this genial gypsy smoked in blissful silence until the stub grew so short that it burned his already singed fingers. He was thinking of other days and nights, and of many maids in far-off lands, and of countless journeys in which he, too, had had fair and gentle company--short journeys, yes, but not to be forgotten. Ah, to be knight of the road and everlasting squire to the G.o.ddess of Love! He always had been that--ever since he could remember; he had loved a hundred briefly; none over long. It was the only way.

Once more he turned to look upon the sleeping pair. This time he lighted the stub of a tallow candle. The tender, winning smile in his dark eyes grew to positive radiance. Ah, how he envied this great, sleeping wayfarer! How beautiful his mistress! How fortunate the lover! And how they slept--how tired they were! Whence had they come? From what distant land had they travelled together to reach this holiday-garnished city in the hills? Vagabonds, tramps! They were of his world, a part of his family; he knew and had loved a hundred of her sisters, he was one of a hundred-thousand brothers to this man.

Why should he stay here to spoil their waking hour? The thought came to him suddenly. No; he would surrender his apartment to them. He was free and foot-loose; he could go elsewhere. He _would_ go elsewhere.

Softly he tip-toed to his own corner of the car, looking over his shoulder with anxious eyes to see that his movements did not disturb them. He gathered up his belongings: an ancient violin case, a stout walking stick, a goodly sized pack done up in gaudy cloth, a well-worn pair of sandals with long, frayed lacings. As gently he stole back to the door. Here he sat down, with his feet hanging outside the car. Then, with many a sly, wary glance at his good comrades, he put on his sandals and laced them up the leg. He tossed a kiss to the sleeping girl, his dark gypsy face aglow with admiration and mischief, and was about to blow out the light of his candle. Then he changed his mind. He arose and stood over them again, looking long and solemnly at the face of the sleeping girl. Ah, yes, she was the most beautiful he had ever seen--the very fairest. He had known her sisters, but-no, they were not like this one. With a sly grimace of envy he shook his fist at the tall man whose leg served as a pillow for the tired head.

The girl looked wan and tired--and hungry. Poor thing! Never had he seen one so sweet and lovely as she; never had he seen such a shockingly muddy mackintosh, however, as the one she wore, never were hands so dirty as the slender ones which lay limp before her. With a determined shake of his head and a new flash of the eye he calmly seated himself and began to open his ragged pack. Once he paused, a startled look in his face. He caught sight of the revolver at Truxton's side for the first time. The instant of alarm pa.s.sed and a braver smile than ever came. Ah, here was a knight who would fight for his lady love! Good fellow! Bravo!

At last his small store of food lay exposed. Without hesitation he divided the pieces of smoked venison, giving one part to himself, two to the sleepers; then the miller's bread and the cheese, and the bag of dates he had bought the day before. He tied up his own slender portion and would have whistled for the joy of it all had he not bethought himself in time.

From one of his pockets he drew out tobacco and cigarette papers. With his back planted up against the wall of the car, his legs crossed and his feet wiggling time to the inward tune he sang, he calmly rolled half a dozen cigarettes and placed them, one by one, beside the feast. One match from his thin supply he placed alongside the cigarettes. Then he looked very doubtful. No; one might blow out. He must not be n.i.g.g.ardly.

So he kept two for himself and gave three to the guest at his banquet.

Again he blew a kiss to the prettiest girl he had ever seen. Snuffing his candle, he dropped to the ground and closed the door against all spying, uncivil eyes.

The first grey of dawn was growing in the sombre east. He looked out over the tops of cars and sniffed the air. The rain was over. He knew. A tinge of red that none but the gypsy could have distinguished betrayed the approach of a sunny day. Jauntily he swung off down the path between the lines of cars, his fickle mind wavering between the joys of the coming day and the memory of the loveliest Romany he had ever encountered.

Daybreak found him at the wharf gates. It was gloomy here and silent; the city above looked asleep and unfruitful. His heart was gay; he longed for company. Whimsical, careless hearted, he always obeyed the impulse that struck him first. As he stood there, surveying the wet, deserted wharf, it came to him suddenly that if he went back and played one soft love-song before the door of the car, they might invite him to join them in the breakfast that the genie had brought.

His long legs were swift. In five minutes he was half way down the line of cars, at the extreme end of which stood the happy lodging place of his heart's desire. Then he paused, a dubious frown between his eyes.

No! he said, slapping his own cheek soundly; it would not be fair! He would not disturb them, not he! How could he have thought of such a thing. _Le bon Dieu!_ Never! He would breakfast alone!

Coming to an empty flat car, direct from the quarries, he resolutely seated himself upon its edge, and, with amiable resignation, set about devouring his early meal, all the while casting longing, almost appealing glances toward the next car but one. Busy little switch engines began chugging about the yards; the railroad, at least, was exhibiting some signs of life. Here and there the crews were "snaking"

out sections and b.u.mping them off to other parts of the gridiron; a car here, a car there--all aflounder, but quite simple to this merry wanderer. He knew all about switching, he did. It did not cause him the least uneasiness when a sudden jar told him that an engine had been attached to the distant end of the string in which he breakfasted. Nor was he disturbed when the cars began to move. What cared he? He would ride in his dining-car to the objective switch, wherever that was, and no doubt would find himself nearer the main freight depot, with little or no walking to do on his journey to the square.

But the "string" was not bound for another track in the yards; it was on its way to the main line, thence off through the winding valley into strange and distant lands.

Sir Vagabond, blissfully swinging his heels and munching his venison, smiled amiably upon the yard men as he pa.s.sed them by. So genial was the smile, so frank the salutation, that not one scowled back at him or hurled the chunk of coal that bespeaks a surly temper. Down through the maze of sidetracks whisked the little train, out upon the main line with a thin shriek of greeting, past the freight houses--it was then that Sir Vagabond sat up very straight, a look of mild interest in his eyes.

Interest gave way to perplexity, perplexity to concern. What's this?

Leaving the city? He wasted no time. This would never do! Clutching his belongings to his side, he vaulted from one hand, nimbly and with the gracefulness of wide experience, landing safely on his feet at the roadside.

There he stood with the wry, dazed look of a man who suddenly finds himself guilty of arrant stupidity, watching the cars whiz past on their way to the open country. Just ahead was the breach in the wall through which all trains entered or left the city. Into that breach shot the train, going faster and faster as it saw the straight, clear track beyond. He waited until the tail end whisked itself out of sight in the cut below the city walls, and then trudged slowly, dejectedly in the opposite direction, his heart in his boots. He was thinking of the luckless pair in the empty "box."

Suddenly he stopped, his chin up, his hands to his sides. A hearty peal of laughter soared from his lips. He was regarding the funny side of the situation. The joke was on them! It was rich! The more he thought of their astonishment on awaking, the more he laughed. He leaned against a car.

His immense levity attracted attention. Four or five men approached him from the shadows of the freight houses, ugly, unsmiling fellows. They demanded of him the cause of his unseemly mirth. With tears in his merry black eyes he related the plight of the pretty slumberers, dwelling more or less sentimentally on the tender beauty of the maiden fair. They plied him with questions. He described the couple--even glowingly. Then the sinister fellows smiled; more than that, they clapped each other on the back and swore splendidly. He was amazed and his own good humour gave way to fierce resentment. What right had these ruffians to laugh at the misfortunes of that unhappy maid?

A switchman came up, and one of the men, a lank American whom we should recognise by the sound of his voice (having heard it before), asked whither the train was bound and when it would first stop in its flight.

"At the Poo quarries, seventeen kilometers down the line. They cut out a few empties there. She goes on to the division point after that."

"Any trains up from that direction this morning?" demanded "Newport."

"Not till this afternoon. Most of the crews are in the city for the--"

But the switchman had no listeners beyond that statement.

And so it was that the news spread over town at five o'clock that Truxton King was where he could do no harm. It was well known that the train would make forty miles an hour down the steep grade into the lower valley.

Up into the city strolled Sir Vagabond, his fiddle in his hand, his heart again as light as a feather. Some day--ah, some day! he would see her again on the road. It was always the way. Then he would tell her how unhappy he had been--for a minute. She was so pretty, so very pretty! He sighed profoundly. We see no more of him.

When Truxton King first awoke to the fact that they were no longer lying motionless in the dreary yards, he leaped to his feet with a startled shout of alarm. Loraine sat up, blinking her eyes in half-conscious wonder. It was broad daylight, of course; the train was rattling through the long cut just below the city walls. With frantic energy he pulled open the door. For a minute he stared at the scudding walls of stone so close at hand, uncomprehendingly. Then the truth burst upon him with the force of a mighty blow. He staggered back, his jaw dropping, his eyes glaring.

"What the dev--Great G.o.d, Loraine! We're going! We're moving!" he cried hoa.r.s.ely.

"I know it," she gasped, her body rocking violently with the swaying of the wild, top-heavy little car.

"Great Scott! How we're pounding it! Fifty miles an hour. Where are we?"

he cried, aghast. He could scarcely keep his feet, so terrific was the speed and so sickening the motion.

She got to her feet and lurched to his side. "Don't fall out!" she almost shrieked. He drew back with her. Together they swayed like reeds in a windstorm, staring dizzily at the wall before them.

Suddenly the train shot out into the open, farm-spattered valley.

Truxton fell back dumbfounded.

"The country!" he exclaimed. "We've been carried away. I--I can't believe my senses. Could we have slept--what a fool, what an idiot! G.o.d in heaven! The Prince! He is lost!" He was beside himself with anguish and despair, raging like a madman, cursing himself for a fool, a dog, a murderer!

Little less distressed than her companion, Loraine Tullis still had the good sense to keep him from leaping from the car. He had shouted to her that he must get back to the city; she could go on to the next town and find a hiding place. He would come to her as soon as he had given the alarm.

"You would be killed," she cried, clutching his arm fiercely. "You never can jump, Truxton. See how we are running. If you jump, I shall follow.

I won't go on alone. I am as much to blame as you."

The big, strong fellow broke down and cried, utterly disheartened.

"Don't cry, Truxton, please don't cry!" she pleaded. "Something will happen. We must stop sometime. Then we can get another train back, or telegraph, or hire a wagon. It must be very early. The sun is scarcely up. Do be brave! Don't give up!"

He squared his shoulders. "You put me to shame!" he cried abjectly.

"I'm--I'm unnerved, that's all. It was too much of a blow. After we'd got away from those scoundrels so neatly, too. Oh, it's maddening! I'll be all right in a minute. You plucky, plucky darling!"

The train whirled through a small hamlet without even slackening its speed. Truxton endeavoured to shout a warning to two men who stood by the gates; but they merely laughed, not comprehending. Then he undertook to arrest the attention of the engineer. He leaned from the door and shouted. The effort was futile, almost disastrous. A lurch came near to hurling him to the rocky road bed. Now and then they pa.s.sed farmers on the high road far above, bound for the city. They called out to them, but the cries were in vain. With every minute they were running farther and farther away from the city of Edelweiss; every mile was adding to the certainty of the doom which hung over the little Prince and his people.

A second small station flew by. "Ronn: seven kilometers to Edelweiss."

He looked at her in despair.

"We're going faster and faster," he grated. "This is the fastest train in the world, Loraine, bar none."

Just then his gaze alighted on the pathetic breakfast and the wandering cigarettes. He stared as if hypnotised. Was he going mad? An instant later he was on his hands and knees, examining the mysterious feast. She joined him at once; no two faces ever before were so puzzled and perplexed.

"By heaven!" he exclaimed, drawing her away from the spot in quick alarm, comprehension flooding his brain. "I see it all! We've been deliberately shanghaied! We've been bottled up here, drugged, perhaps, and shipped out of town by fast freight--no destination. Don't touch that stuff! It's probably full of poison. Great Scott! What a clever gang they are! And what a blithering idiot they have in me to deal with.